


An Artist's Approach

by lordvoldemortsnipple



Series: Merthur Prompts [4]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Merlin (Merlin), Banter, First Kiss, Get Together, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Arthur, Pining, and guess what:, flatmates, in an unusual way, mentions of paintings and art movements you've been warned, someone wants to be painted like one of his frenchgirls, the usual faves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-26 22:44:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19777993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordvoldemortsnipple/pseuds/lordvoldemortsnipple
Summary: An informed analysis of the works of Merlin Emrys, struggling artist and imbecile, by Arthur Pendragon, a most certified flatmate with opinions.





	An Artist's Approach

  


  


“How do you want me?” Arthur asks, eyes on Merlin’s right ear, his hands stuck in his jeans pockets, taking in all he can without looking at Merlin directly in the face. It’s not something he avoids out of habit, Arthur finds his gaze on Merlin often, and just as often Merlin’s on himself, but there’s an intimacy to this situation that makes him wary. 

He stands in Merlin’s room, and the nervousness of what he’s about to do keep him from the natural instinct to comment on the chaos surrounding them, on the notebooks piled on the floor, the pens on a corner of the bed, the towers built on Merlin’s desk. How does Merlin work here when he doesn’t seem to have room to move is astounding. 

“Oh, just sit on the bed,” Merlin says, waving a hand towards it, as he turns his back to Arthur. He watches Merlin pick a pencil case and turning it over to empty it on his desk, pencils, pens and brushes rolling over the surface, stopped on their paths by glasses with water and tubes of paint. They won’t get away from this either.

Arthur sits down, watching his friend set up the canvas with some apprehension. For someone taking a degree in arts, Merlin seems unaware of how to prop a canvas, he’s all elbows and slippery fingers, taking his time making sure the canvas doesn’t slide off, balancing the frame with a turn of the body, pulling weight on his knees. Merlin is graceless even in profession, and Arthur feels as if he shouldn’t adore it. 

He feels he shouldn’t be doing this either, and yet here he is, even if he doesn’t know how to sit properly for a portrait. This is an absolutely terrible idea, and Arthur should be leaving now. Instead he tries to position himself properly, leaning back his weight into a hand on the bed, knees pulled apart, his other hand resting on his inner thigh. He feels like Modigliani’s _Reclining Nude_ 1, as laid bare as Beatrice Hastings had been before her lover.

Should he be reclining as so many lovers had done when posing for their artists? He’s a lover but not loved here, and reclining leaves him bare for mercy. Maybe Merlin will direct him on his pose. Yes, Merlin might ask him to lose the jacket, maybe open his shirt a bit more, maybe… maybe he'll come close, his hands gentle as they help Arthur shift into whatever position he needs of him, maybe Merlin will take his hand to place it elsewhere, press his own on Arthur's thigh to part his legs, maybe Merlin will cup his chin with gentle fingers to turn his head, his thumb brushing his cheek in a soft caress, as he leads Arthur into a kiss. 

And maybe Arthur should stop daydreaming about kissing his best friend. His hands curl on the bed, and he does his best to avoid red on his cheeks. No evidence of his affection should be portrayed for others to see. He doesn’t want to so known, not without knowing Merlin in return.

His eyes go up to see Merlin still with his back turned to him, locking the canvas on the easel. No one will run from this today.

“Hurry up, Merlin, I haven’t got all day.”

Merlin turns around, two brushes clenched in his hand. "You offered," he says, "for some reason. I presumed that means you do have the time." 

And Arthur had offered, curse him. It's just that Merlin is so secretive with his art. He's always bringing people over to pose, usually classmates, and they spend hours locked in this room for Merlin to paint. He hasn't ever asked Arthur to pose for him, even if they've been flatmates and friends for almost two years. 

And in all of that time, Merlin has never let Arthur see one of his paintings. Not from lack of trying, but Merlin locks his room when he leaves, he hides his paintings as he takes them to class, and he somehow managed to make Arthur miss the past three end of semester exhibitions. All Arthur has seen so far are the colors Merlin uses, on his clothes and skin when he leaves the room, and the classmates Merlin brings in, one at a time, to paint.

But today Merlin had come home complaining that Gili had canceled on him, and this was Merlin’s last project for the year. Air filling his lungs, rushing out quickly with words Arthur didn’t allow himself to think over, he had asked if Merlin wanted him to pose for his painting. Arthur might finally see some of Merlin’s art, and discover how he’s seen. He’s here to know. 

"I wasn't counting on you being as lazy in painting as you are in household chores," Arthur says, tilting his head to the side, "how you've turned any work on time seems a wonder."

"The real wonder is why I'm still living with you," Merlin replies, as he seems to finish setting up, now moving to open tubes of acrylic paint, and smearing reds, blues and yellows onto a board. The smell of paint colors the room as he watches Merlin close the lids again. Arthur's not wearing anything red today. 

"Obviously because I keep taking pity on you." Arthur says. "Do I stay like this?" 

"A prat? If you must," Merlin says, a brush in his hand as he faces Arthur, half of his chest and his right hand blocked from view by the canvas. 

"No, _Mer_ lin," Arthur says, his tone heavy with exasperated fondness, "I meant my pose. Should I sit differently?" 

Merlin could come close now, could push and pull at Arthur's limbs to his will, could brush his fingers up his arms, down his chest, paint his touch on Arthur's skin for him to remember in years to come. 

"Hm," Merlin crosses his arms and his eyes roam Arthur's form. His chest fills with air, throat hoarding it in. When Merlin looks at him so intensely, it seems as there’s no room to breathe. "Can you hold a handstand while I paint?" 

"A handstand?” Arthur asks with a frown. He doubts Gilli could have done that if he was here instead. “Absolutely not, at this pace we will still be doing this by tomorrow evening.”

“Knew you couldn’t do it.” Merlin shrugs, turning to his paint again, dipping the brush on water and then vivid red, the color sipping into the brush, liquid as he brings it up to the canvas.

“Right, so it’s a handstand or nothing?” Arthur asks, trying to feel as if he isn’t begging for a touch.

Merlin looks up at him again, brush still held up in his hand. “Can you lean a bit further back? Put your weight on your elbow instead of your hand.” He tilts his head as Arthur follows his instructions, eyes fixed on him. “Keep your shoulders straight, your chin high, yeah, like that.”

He does as Merlin asks, and folds a leg, shoulders straight as he reclines after all, a tilt to his head, his eyes on Merlin’s, who looks right back at him, blue eyes following Arthur’s movements, careful as they take in the pose. 

There is a hurricane growing on Arthur’s lungs, he feels it expanding against his ribs, willing it to be let out a long breath. Merlin’s eyes are on him, so he’s careful with the rise of his chest, with the parting of his lips, and what comes out is a breeze.

Arthur might have hoped for more than a glimpse of Merlin’s art when he offered to pose for him. He had thought, mind painted with the red on Merlin’s brush, of the touches he might be permitted to feel. 

Merlin always stands closer than he should, close enough for Arthur to learn each of his eyelashes, the shape of his mouth, the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes when he smiles. Arthur is no artist himself, he can’t replicate the sight, so he makes do with his memories, with what Merlin allows him to see. 

With what he’s not allowed to feel. Merlin is oddly careful not to touch him, and Arthur doesn’t know how to respond. He tries to breach the space between them inadequately, pulling Merlin into headlocks, pushing his shoulder into Merlin’s, hoping for Merlin to lean back in. He never does.

There is only one memorable moment of such thing, when their first year of college ended, and Merlin hugged him tight, a goodbye for the summer. He had clutched at Arthur’s back and buried his head on his shoulder. Arthur had tilted his head just enough to tickle his nose on Merlin’s dark hair, his hands open on Merlin’s back, claiming as much as he could without giving himself away. That had been almost a year ago.

Every other touch, even if not as memorable, has been memorised. When Merlin reaches back, there are layers between them, Merlin’s hand not on Arthur’s arm, but on his jacket, his knee bumping into Arthur’s trousers, not his thigh, fingers running through the collar of his shirt to fix it, never to reach the skin beneath. Every touch comes once removed.

Arthur is not artist, but he knows art. He’s gone with his father and sister on exhibitions and galleries and museums all over Europe, he has seen with his own eyes the bold colors of Van Gogh, the precise light of Rembrant, the geometry of Picasso. He has read books at home, over the years, of art critics who examine each stroke, as it is placed with care, with a purpose, a need from the artist that can’t be taken back, to be broken into wishes and messages on Pollock’s ink drops and thought out splashes; on the exact placement of each visible stroke of Monet; on Dali’s colors which blend so seamlessly no brush could have been used without the most careful of strokes. 

If Merlin were to touch him, Arthur would follow Merlin’s path on his skin, examine the confidence of the touch, the speed of movement, where would Merlin linger, where would he press. Arthur would analyze each stroke as an art critic, in hopes to discover the artist’s intent.

This artist leaves no mark on Arthur, a canvas and a few feet as another layer between them. He swallows down his disappointment, inhaled into the hurricane, exhaled softly. Another breeze. He doesn’t say _Paint me, paint me, you idiot, with your eyes, your clumsy fingers, your foolish mouth,_ as the words inhabit his throat for a moment, and then are swept into the hurricane. He knew how to breathe, once. Then he met Merlin.

He looks at him, at the ridiculous blue plaid shirt he’s wearing, at the dripping brush held in a hand, to the jeans already marked with the red dripped from the brush. What can a critic read of this piece?

“Well?” Arthur asks, his tone casual, “Go on, then.”

“I’m thinking of how to capture all of your enormous ego,” Merlin says, squinting his eyes a bit, brush held up as he pretends to measure Arthur, “I’m not sure it can fit in this frame, you see.”

Arthur bites down a chuckle, but his lips still mimic the action. “I’ve told you before you can’t speak to me like that.”

“I think you’ve mentioned it,” Merlin agrees, dipping the brush on the paint once more, and then with a quick gesture, drags it across the canvas.

“Are you sure you’re doing that right, Merlin?” Arthur asks. “Shouldn’t you start with a sketch first?”

Merlin pauses, and quirks an eyebrow at him. “Of course, I forgot you know more about painting than I do, what with studying _economy_. Tell, did they teach you how to paint in macro or micro economics? I always get those two mixed up.”

“Very funny, Merlin,” Arthur replies, “But knowing you, I wouldn’t be surprised if I did end up doing a better job.”

Merlin grins from ear to ear, back to painting, “Let’s have you paint me next then.”

“If inspiration strikes,” Arthur replies casually, biting down a smile.

Merlin doesn’t hide as he does, letting out a laugh, “Alright. And I’m not inspiring enough?”

“Oh you inspire a _lot_ , Merlin,” Arthur says, looking at him, eyebrows going up. 

“That didn’t sound like a compliment.”

“I wonder why.”

“Probably because I can’t expect anything better from you,” Merlin says, still grinning, his arm swiping wide across the canvas.

“It’s all you inspire,” Arthur says.

Merlin laughs, eyes almost closed from the wide smile, and shakes his head, a cheeky look on his face as he glares at him. If Arthur could, he’d paint it.

“Shut up.”

“What a cunning retort,” Arthur says, settling his weight a bit more on his elbow, his pose loose.

Merlin grins. “I figured you’d think so, since it’s your usual go to.”

Arthur is the one letting out a laugh this time, his mouth pulled into an incredulous grin, mouth open, and he’s going for a chastising reply before something crosses his mind. “Do you need me to be quiet while you paint?”

“Could you really sit there so long without voicing any complaints?”

“ _Mer_ lin.”

“I’d rather if you kept talking, to be honest,” Merlin says, eyes on Arthur’s for a long second, before he turns to the canvas again. “Besides, we can’t give you too much room to think, who knows what you’ll come up with.”

“I might come to my senses and find a new flatmate.”

“See? When you think you come up with terrible ideas.”

Arthur chuckles, watching Merlin add another red to his palette, scooping it up into his brush with a precise turn of the wrist. “Maybe my new flatmate wouldn’t leave paint water on the fridge for his flatmate to mistake for an actual drink.”

“But would they tolerate your stinky feet after your workouts?” Merlin asks, without missing a beat.

“Not only would they tolerate it, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says hauntingly, raising his chin, “but they’d be honored to presence it. As one should.”

“Hm, they sound dull,” Merlin says, “Also like they’ve got some sort of foot fetish. Are you sure you want them as a flatmate?”

Arthur laughs again, his chest lighter, as if with each laugh a bit of the hurricane within him is released. There’s hidden power in Merlin, who controls the coming and goings of storms.

“Yes, but maybe they wouldn’t keep their work hidden from their best friend for two years,” Arthur says, carefully casual.

To the untrained eye Merlin doesn’t seem to react, but an art critic knows how to examine masterpieces. Merlin is a painting with no label, where one has to come close to see its techniche, to understand its style, to presume its intention. There’s always something hidden away for only the artist to know. Did Van Gogh know, when he painted the wheat fields 2, that he was painting his last paintings, that he was recording for history the place were he would kill himself? Did he realize, in an attentive look of the landscape as he painted, that given the choice, he’d die among the expanding yellow fields and the blue sky, or was the intent already set in his mind, each stroke laid on the canvas as one digs their own grave?

With Merlin, there’s a quick glance down at his hand, holding the brush, a stillness on his shoulders, a tension in his mouth. Arthur can read the hesitance, the conflict in his stance, his discomfort, but what does it mean? 

“Maybe they’d have nothing to hide, since they’re so dull,” Merlin says, eyes on the palette beside him, as he pours a darker shade of blue onto it, picking up a new brush to dip into it. The other brush he places behind an ear, which seems to be made especially for said task. 

“What could you possibly have to hide from me?” Arthur asks, eyebrows pulled together into a frown. There’s something to Merlin, who manages to appear an open book while keeping its contents from view.

Merlin finishes a stroke on the canvas, and pauses, looking at it. Arthur wonders what’s written into the canvas, how does Merlin see him, how does Merlin inhabit the frame?

“It’s stupid, really,” Merlin says, as he goes back to painting. “I don’t know if you’d like it.”

“Your paintings? I’m sure you’re fine, Merlin, or you’d be failing your classes.”

“You _do_ have faith in me,” Merlin says, sarcasm coloring his voice, a bit of a smile on his lips. “Still, you’re definitely not going to like this one.”

“Now that’s some confidence in your own work,” Arthur says, “do you say that to everyone you paint?”

Merlin switches the brush to his left hand, picking a new one. He doesn’t seem to understand the concept of washing his brush, and uses them as if pens limited to their own color. No wonder there are so many dropped all over his cluttered desk. He’s using yellow now, as he looks at Arthur. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about _Gili_ and Morgause and Mordred, and all the others you’ve been bringing over to paint.” Arthur says, holding back any jealousy he might, perhaps, feel, so it’s pigments sit on his tongue for him alone to taste.

Merlin slows his work. “Wait, you think I’ve been painting them?”

“You haven’t?”

There are many debates surrounding the Mona Lisa, one of which concerning who was the woman portrayed. The consensus seems to be Lisa Gherardini, the wife of a merchant. Some, however, claim that it might have been inspired by Da Vinci’s apprentice, a very male subject, as some sketches from the painter show.3

“No,” Merlin says, turning his head more towards Arthur, confusion drawn on his face. “Why would I want to do that?”

When the artist doesn’t elaborate himself on the piece in question, the interpretation is left entirely on the audience. Art critics and historians may examine their life, their connections, their inspiration, but no certainty can be reached unless it comes from the source. No one will truly know who Mona Lisa is. It’s a different matter entirely when the artist is right there. 

“Because— you’ve been bringing them over when you have to paint!”

Yeah, so we can work together!”

“So you’ve been, what, doing collaborations?” Arthur asks.

“No,” Merlin says again, trading the brush on his right hand for the red one behind his ear. His touch on the canvas is more careful now. “It’s just art sessions. We do our own work in each other’s company.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. There’s a stillness in his chest. “I thought— then why are you painting me?”

Merlin glances at him, a quick movement of the eyes, and then his gaze is back at the painting. “Because you offered?”

It’s good Merlin is using red again, because Arthur’s face is heating up, as if Merlin dragged the brush on his cheeks, painting them instead of the canvas. A short inhale and the hurricane in his chest reawakens.

“I offered because I thought you were doing a portrait of Gili, and then he stood you up.” Arthur says with forced calmness.

“Oh,” Merlin lets out this time. He slows his movement on the canvas. Sometimes, the artist is the one who misinterprets their subject. 

“Are you,” Arthur starts to ask. How is his face so warm when he can hear wind roaring by his ears? “Are you even painting me?”

“Yeah,” Merlin answers. There are now two brushes on his left hand, each held between two fingers, and on his right a brush dipped in white. His trousers are painted with the colors he yields in his hands, a poor substitute for the painting still hidden from Arthur.

“Will you let me see it?” Arthur asks.

Merlin keeps his eyes on the canvas, his brushstrokes slow now, careful. “When it’s done. It won’t be long now.”

Arthur watches him. Looking at Merlin is never a chore, but what he needs now is to see what Merlin is seeing, what lays on the canvas. A hurricane forces the air out of his lungs, drags out words that had been stuck on his tongue. “Then why didn’t you just say you wanted company? You didn’t have to paint me.”

“You offered!” Merlin repeats, eyes fixed on the canvas, as he paints it. “And I didn’t think you were doing it out of pity.” he stops, seemingly focused on the painting.

“I...” _wasn’t, say I wasn’t_ , but he doesn’t think he should. Merlin will ask why he did it then, and Arthur doesn’t want to tell him that.

“Just— give me a second,” Merlin asks, his painting more determinate, a frown on his face as he gives small touches on the canvas. He changes between brushes faster now, and Arthur can see why that’d be easier than constantly cleaning the one. It doesn’t mean he knows what to expect. Merlin reaches with his hands too, fingers rubbing at the paint, dragging on the canvas as Arthur had imagined on his skin. “Okay,” Merlin says, stepping back, eyes on the canvas, “I think that’s it.”

“It’s done?” Arthur asks, pulling himself a bit straighter.

“Yeah,” Merlin says, dropping the brushes on a cup, so his hands are free to cover their opposite elbows, “Come see.”

Arthur gets up, eyes on Merlin as he crosses the space between them. Merlin is looking at the painting, moving a bit to the side to give Arthur room next to him. Arthur just has to look away from Merlin now, just has to turn a bit, to see the painting. Merlin’s eyes meet his own, and everything stops, the storm rushing out of his lungs. He turns.

Arthur doesn’t see himself in the painting. There are colors everywhere, reds with blues, yellow and white shining. It looks like stars in a red sky, a blue wind pushing through it, and as beautiful as it is, there’s no face looking back at him. The brushstrokes, the volume of the paint, the colors chosen don’t give him a clear reading of anything.

“It looks....” Arthur starts, leaning back a bit, hoping to gain more perspective. “It looks like a galaxy, like the universe.”

Merlin shifts beside him. “It’s the only thing I could think of big enough to encompass all of your ego.”

Arthur turns his head to look at Merlin, taking in the shoulders pushed forward, the lock of his arms over his chest, hands closed into fists, the weight shifting from one foot to another, the plump bottom lip pulled beneath his teeth. He understands now why Merlin didn’t want him to see his paintings.

An artist leaves a painting’s interpretation to the critics, but the approach is never the same when you know the artist. _Reclining Nude_ , at a first look, is an intimate painting, from the point of view of a beloved joining a lover, who lays unguarded, confident of their joint happiness. When one knows that Modigliani once threw Beatrice through a window, the painting might feel different. Now it might seem bathed in red, Beatrice’s body slumped on the ground, no visible hands to shield herself, no feet to run, eyes closed, as predator approaches his prey. To most people, what Merlin painted are just colors on a canvas, but Arthur doesn’t need to examine the brushstroke, the placement of color, to know that it means.

After all, Arthur has been a studious critic not of Merlin’s paintings, which he has never seen, but of the artist himself. To know the painting’s message it seems simpler to analyse Merlin. 

“You don’t paint portraits at all,” Arthur says.

“Not in the usual fashion,” Merlin shrugs a bit. “And not often.”

Arthur glances at the painting, but his eyes always return to what matters. “Why didn’t you say all you wanted was company?”

“I thought you wanted me to paint you,” Merlin says again. His eyes meet Arthur’s, as blue as the shade in the painting.

Carl Kahler once spent three years learning how to paint cats, so he could paint _My Wife’s Lovers_ 4, a commission by Kate Birdsall of her forty two cats. There was no love from the artist for the subjects, but it didn’t diminish the painting’s meaning. The point of the painting was not for Kate to press her love into the canvas, nor for Kahler to feel it. A painting’s purpose can just be to show how someone is beloved, no matter by whom.

Merlin has painted his message, but Arthur can’t use a brush as he does, and he doubts he could do as Kate and commission a reply. Arthur wouldn’t know how to instruct someone to translate what’s on his head, not when he himself doesn’t know how to put into neither words nor paper.

“I did,” he answers, a sketch forming in his mind. “I did want that.”

“Oh,” Merlin let’s out, surprised. His eyes are as bright as the stars he painted. “And do you like it or not?”

Arthur looks at the painting again, at the universe in it, the warmth of the red, the elevating blue, stars as yellow as his hair. He says, with honesty, “It’s better than I thought it’d be.”

“And you say I have no faith in my work,” Merlin smiles, bumping his shoulder on Arthur’s before he moves his foot back, shifting his weight away.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I meant....” Arthur glances at the painting again, taking it in. It feels ethereal, infinite. He looks at Merlin. “I think I get it.”

Merlin doesn’t look away from his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Arthur closes his hand, fingers itching to draw.

His hand comes up to Merlin’s face, thumb painting his cheeks red with one stroke. The other hand, cupping his jaw, draws Merlin’s breath from his lips. 

“Arthur,” Merlin lets out, voice colored as wine, eyes almost honey tinted from the sweetness of his gaze. 

Arthur leans closer, his movements slow, and they share a breath before they share their mouths. Arthur’s lips press red on Merlin’s, a hand moves to brush into his hair, fingers tracing over the lines of his scalp. His body is drawn into Merlin’s, by a hand on the back of his neck, another at his waist, and Merlin’s tongue dipping into his mouth. 

He leans into Merlin, turning just enough to press him against the desk, and Arthur can feel Merlin’s amusement against his mouth. Merlin’s hands, on his neck, on his clothes, burying beneath his shirt into his skin, paint him red, yellow and blue, same as the painting, at last a brushstroke to follow. 

If there’s an art to kissing, they should be on the Louvre, on Guggenheim, on the Brittish Museum, their kiss qualified as a masterpiece, to be recorded in history books as the auge of the kind, the first of a series of infinite.

When Arthur dares to pull back, is only just the space needed for them to look at each other. Merlin’s grin is contagious, making Arthur smile back as he’s malleable into pose once more. Merlin finally move him as he wishes, ands bringing Arthur close, tilting his head for Merlin’s pleasure, for his lips on Arthur’s jaw, then on his cheek, a kiss on the end of his lips, an artist’s expertise upon their work. 

“Where you jealous of the people I supposedly painted?” Merlin asks, lips brushing on Arthur’s cheek as he speaks. “Of _Gili_?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” Arthur says firmly, tilting his head so his nose strokes slowly on Merlin’s. “Only a fool would be jealous of him.”

“Why do you think I asked?” Merlin smiles wide.

“Merlin.”

“Yes?” There are dimples on his cheeks now.

“Shut up.”

“You were right, that’s a clever retort,” Merlin has no more room for his smile to grow. “Why don’t you make me?”

They kiss as the Romantics once painted, the feeling brought on just as grand, as everlasting, like the gathering of storms, like the light shining through the clouds. When examining such landscapes, Arthur used to stand still, taking in every detail, and imagine what would be like to be swallowed into the vast fields, to stand beneath the stormy skies, to feel the ocean’s breeze on his face, to find freedom like no other. Kissing Merlin feels as if Arthur finally stepped into such painting.

“Did I get it right?” Arthur asks, eyes closed and a smile as he feels Merlin's hands on his lower back, with no layer in between. He can only imagine the path of paint being left on his skin.

“Yeah, no need to brag,” Merlin says, “or I might change a few things on it.”

“You’d need me to po—,” Arthur stops, leaning back a bit, into Merlin’s hands. “Hang on. If you were doing an abstract painting, why did you have me pose at all? Why that position?”

Merlin laughs, leaning close. “Gave me an excuse to ogle you for a bit, didn’t it?” 

Arthur doesn’t know whether to be flattered or affronted, but that’s Merlin’s signature style. He moves into another kiss, the third of the series. Merlin’s fingers dig into his skin at his lower back, his mouth warm on Arthur’s, their hips stuck together. There’s something cubist about this one, multidimensional, their forms blending together into one piece.

Merlin pulls back to keep laughing at his own cleverness, the ridiculous fool, and gives the chance for Arthur to do some ogling of his own. That’s where he painted pink on Merlin’s cheeks, red on his lips, where his touch brightened Merlin’s eyes and darkened his gaze. There’s a smile placed from the fingers brushing the hair right behind Merlin’s ear, and there’s the heart drawn into display by his own. Merlin is a work of art, and for the first time Arthur is an artist.

  


  


**Author's Note:**

>   
>  1 [Reclining Nude](https://parkwestgallery-104d1.kxcdn.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/11/Amedeo_Modigliani_Reclining-Nude-e1447338371354.jpg) \- Amadeo Modigliani [return]  
> 2 [Wheat Fields Under Threatening Skies](http://www.paintingmania.com/arts/vincent-van-gogh/medium/wheat-field-under-threatening-skies-6_2853.jpg) \- Vincent Van Gogh [return]  
> 3 [Mona Lisa](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/e/ec/Mona_Lisa%2C_by_Leonardo_da_Vinci%2C_from_C2RMF_retouched.jpg/300px-Mona_Lisa%2C_by_Leonardo_da_Vinci%2C_from_C2RMF_retouched.jpg) \- Leonardo Da Vinci, and [L’angelo incarnato](https://cdn-images-1.medium.com/max/1600/1*_C7pdDYHwLDG8TTbUqOJ9A@2x.jpeg), the sketch mentioned [return]  
> 4 [My Wife’s Lovers ](http://www.sothebys.com/content/dam/sothebys-pages/video-pages/2015/10/catsvideostill_640x360.jpg)\- Carl Kahler [return]
> 
> * * *
> 
> This was written for Merthus's Touch Fest with the prompt 'Drawing each other'
> 
> If you're on tumblr, consider reblogging [the post I made advertising this fic](https://lordvoldemortsnipple.tumblr.com/post/186291905674)? I'd love you forever ;)
> 
> Since you got all the way down here (thanks, btw!), why not check my other Merthur fics?  
> [Get the Frog, Kiss the Prince](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14703792)  
> Gaius said Merlin was being paranoid, and Arthur said he was just jealous of all the attention. Gwen had looked at him with pity, as if she had an idea why the whole thing was actually bothering him, but didn’t say anything supporting either, so she didn’t count. Three female heirs with their parents, all trying to get a firm alliance with Camelot, and no one thought something would go wrong. Merlin hadn’t really counted on everyone in the castle suddenly being in love with Arthur, but honestly it’s not that surprising, is it?  
> [An Illusion of Sorts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6593434)  
> The night Morgana sneaks a magic show into Arthur’s club is the same night Arthur meets Merlin. Arthur knows not everyone shares his opinion on how tasteless magic tricks are, but he still can’t understand why Merlin is so defensive of this Dragoon the Great.


End file.
